" "Perhaps, I wasn't," returned Thames, gloomily, as the remembrance of Jonathan Wild's foul insinuation crossed him. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. His chin was angular and his lips were 16 small, his mouth tiny and refined. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. I had a hunch. Leave the rest to me. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. I've come to take you back home. ' That's your signal. ’ ‘What matters it?’ cried Melusine impatiently.
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